


Scars

by SmokeyLoki



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-02 19:59:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1060989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmokeyLoki/pseuds/SmokeyLoki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a reason our beloved army doctor wears a thick bath robe after showering, even in the heat of summer. Sherlock is determined to stamp out the little kink of awkwardness between them about the reason. So as per his usual socially inept methods, he goes for direct confrontation.<br/>Soft Johnlock-ish, not really. Prompt request from someone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

John had spent a long time in the military, so he was no stranger to seeing and being naked around other men. He was actually very used to it. 

It would make sense for him to feel at ease wandering around their flat in naught but a towel. John should have been fine with it. Sherlock wasn’t exactly a sexual threat. (John had had his fair share of bad experiences too.) But somehow he always found himself in a long bathrobe instead of a simple towel. Sherlock was nearly the opposite. Sometimes John had to remind him to put clothes on before he went out. And Sherlock seemed oblivious to any awkwardness his meandering around naked created. Though after a few weeks John got used to it.

~*~*~*~

“Why are you wearing a robe in summer.” Sherlock asked, less a question and more a statement somehow. 

“Because I’ve just showered and I don’t want to put clothes on yet.” John said too quickly.

“You’re lying. Well, you’re not. But you aren’t telling the truth.” Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin. He was perched on the back of his chair, knees spread, with his elbows placed on top of them, encouraging his hunched position. John pointedly continued typing, not looking at Sherlock.

“John, a small penis is nothing to be ashamed-“ Sherlock spoke, tilting his head a bit before John cut him off with a frustrated slam of his laptop.

“I’m not hiding my dick!” John huffed. His perturbed facial expression drained to one of weariness. Sherlock said nothing, which told John he was waiting for an explanation. Shoulders dropping, John sighed loudly, going back to looking bitter.  
“I just don’t like showing my body…”

“However, you’ve seen me without clothes, and wouldn’t social norm require that to ‘settle the score’ I should see you in the same situation.” Sherlock attempted to reason.

John shot him a look between Im-so-done-with-your-shit and You-have-no-idea-how-wrong-you-are.

“Oh you poor socially inept bastard.” John sighed. He was sighing a lot.

“Would that not be fair, quid-pro quo?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Do you WANT to get in my pants Sherlock?” John gave him a scrunched confused look. 

“Not particularly, but I would like for whatever tension there is here to be settled.” Sherlock spoke slowly, as if explaining to a child.

“Don’t talk down at me or so help me I will cut the collar off your coat.” John glared, temper rising. He had the brief satisfaction of seeing Sherlock go stiff and glance towards the closet.

“Then just answer. Why is this such a big deal?” Sherlock persisted.

“WHYS IT SUCH A BIG DEAL TO YOU?” John’s fuse ran out and the bomb went off. He'd had enough of Sherlock and his stupid prying. All week Sherlock had been being nosy and antsy because he didn't have a case. At least now he had one, so why was he still bothering John. “WHAT BUISNESS IS IT OF YOURS? WHAT IF I JUST LIKE KEEPING MY PRIVATES PRIVATE!” John took a moment to clamp his mouth shut, make a fist, and storm over to the window to clam down. Sherlock remained still. Only his eyes followed John. After a minute John’s shoulders went lax. “There’s nothing to be proud of. Nothing worth showing. It’s weird and grotesque and I don’t want anyone to see it and think ‘Poor John.’ I’m still a perfectly functioning man.” John’s voice had become quiet, almost a whisper, as if he were trying to convince himself. 

“I’m assuming we’re no longer talking about your… ‘privates.’” Sherlock borrowed Johns phrase. Of all the impossible things, John laughed. It was a short, bark of a laugh, but still a laugh. 

“I’m not that vain.” John huffed in amusement. “But no, we’re not.” John’s face fell again. “Perhaps I am that vain.”  
Sherlock stepped off the chair and strode over to John who, was now standing by the tabled, absently picking at it’s edge.

“Show me.” Sherlock demanded softly. John looked horrified.

“What?!” He near shouted, aghast. 

“Show me the scars.” Sherlock clarified. “You were in the army, you fought, you’ve shown your body to other men in the army. Clearly the flaw is something that would only be foreign outside of such company. And army men have scars.” Sherlock explained at lightning pace. John was quiet. And he wouldn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes for the longest minute that Sherlock had ever experience. Finally, without a word, John undid his rob’s belt and shrugged it off his shoulders. It hit the ground with a dull fwump. 

John was surprised and thankful, but mostly surprised that Sherlock snatched it up and tied it around John’s waist. John was going to say something but Sherlock’s eyes were running him up and down, and frankly it creeped him out. But as Sherlock looked him over, John saw that he was muttering silently. 

“What are you going on about now.” John asked, eager for something to break the silent studying of his body.

“I’m listing.” Sherlock said shortly. 

“Elaborate.” 

“5 bullet wounds, burn over the arm, various cuts, and a garrotte scar across your chest.” Sherlock grabbed Johns shoulders and spun him around. “More of the burn, and a few more cuts.” Sherlock’s grip on John’s shoulders tightened. “You were a Doctor though. So why...” The unspoken question hung in the air.

“A few years into service my hospital was bombed. The camp was infiltrated and we were attacked in hand to hand combat with some enemies. The Doctors were rounded up and held hostage as we watched our patients be killed. After that they began executing the nurses, then the doctors. I had been shot in the take over and was being held still by the garrotte. I was on my knees, hands on my head, looking down the barrel of a riffle when the rest of our battalion came in and started fighting again.” John faded off. Sherlock recalled the day he’d asked John what he would say if he were about to die, and felt a pang of regret. “Anyway. Our boys were winning and the enemy knew they were going to die, so they let loose some grenades and I was too close to where one landed. “ John finished his story to the silent stare of Sherlock’s piercing blue green eyes. Sherlock was still holding John at arms length, looking for all the world like an awkward teenager. But just as John was about to flee to the sanctuary of his room. Sherlock yanked him forward and enveloped him in a bone crunching hug. John let out a noise of surprise but didn’t try to break free. After a long while (longer than socially normal) Sherlock let go and strode to the other side of the room. 

“Put your trousers on. We’ve got a case to solve.” Sherlock informed him, already packing his lock picking kit. 

John found himself smiling as he went to his room. For the first time since someone saw his scars, it wasn’t ‘poor John the broken soldier.’ No pampering, pity, or worst of all, being told he was still the same man as before. Because he wasn’t. He’d changed. War changes people. But Sherlock, wonderful stupid genius Sherlock, had seen them, catalogued them, heard his story, spared him a moment of compassion, and gone back to normal. And John wouldn’t have traded that for all the sympathy in the world.


End file.
